


In the Eyes of the Beholder

by Averia



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Grayson (Comics)
Genre: Blüdhaven, Gen, Handcuffs, M/M, Police Officer Dick Grayson, Pre-Relationship, References to Canon, Spyral
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-05 14:41:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21210218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Averia/pseuds/Averia
Summary: Slade doesn't know how a random police officer could get the drop on him - a Blüdhaven police officer no less, someone who should be rotten to the core.





	In the Eyes of the Beholder

**Author's Note:**

> Tbh I don't rly know what this is. But Spyral did things. 
> 
> Day 4: Nice Slade | **Handcuffs**
> 
> (Slade is relatively nice in this but... hmmm.)
> 
> P.S. Day 5 will probably be uploaded on Day 6, cause tomorrow I barely have any time.

Slade doesn't know how a random police officer could get the drop on him - a Blüdhaven police officer no less, someone who should be rotten to the core.

"You are making a mistake, Kid," Slade says, knows how he sounds even if the officer remains unusually steady, blue eyes sharp and unyielding.

The handcuff around his left hand grounds him to the moment - a strange weight his enhanced brain has trouble comprehending. The situation borders on ridiculous. The man in front of him should be dead, blood splashed on the wall - red and blue lights illuminating an ashen face - but his sword remains unused, his lance too, his knives and even his gun.

He offers his right hand, considers which lawyers to call, and doesn’t look away from those eyes that show no fear.

"You have the right to remain silent."

And with that, the right handcuff snaps shut too. The officer gestures for him to walk. His partner stands off to the side. White. Blond. Unsure. The man's name tag flashes in the light of a near street lamp. Malloy.

Slade grins, wolfish. The hand on the small of his back burns as it pushes him forward - the action is bold, bolder than even heroes dare to touch Deathstroke, the Terminator - and down into the car seat. The door locks. For a moment, it's only Malloy and him, the tension so high Slade can hear his elevated breathing. His arresting officer slips into the driver’s seat, and the spell does not break, but it simmers down, the danger he represents so well a sluggish beast, not ready to pounce anymore.

"Grayson, are you sure?" Malloy's voice is a sharp whisper underneath his breath. It's not meant for Slade's ears.

"Hm. Yeah."

The answer is swift - a flicker of blue eyes, corners of the officer's lips twitching up - as if Slade is a small-time criminal they picked up after he stole a lollipop from the deli.

Their drive is silent. Malloy shifts in his seat. A weapon presses against his thigh then is taken out of sight again. The more anxious he becomes, the harder Grayson grips the steering wheel. Still, the silence remains. If Malloy looked at his partner, he would see Grayson's exasperated glances. 

The display of impatience makes Slade strangely fond of Officer Grayson, and he is all the more thrilled when instead of showing his distaste, Grayson simply turns up the volume of the radio. Dancing Queen blares through the speakers, and Malloy stares at Grayson as if he is crazy. Grayson notices, of course, lips curling in satisfaction.

When they stop in front of the BPD, Grayson comes to his side and grabs his wrist the second the door unlocks to haul him out. They aren't alone but they might as well be. Slade wants to know what the kid would do with a sword at his neck, a gun to his head. Would his expression stay the same? Blank but deviant? Is it prey or predator hiding behind that mask?

"That's a big fish you've got there, Grayson," a woman speaks up, hip cocked and one hand on her gun. Black. Curls. Unafraid. He has heard of Helena Bertinelli, everyone in his circle has. Her undercover mission has single-handedly destroyed Gotham's Italian mafia. 

She shouldn't be here. She should be as far away from Gotham as she can get.

Her brown eyes burn, try to hold his attention. It's not the calm consideration he has been subjected to since the BPD caught him.

A hand clasps around his shoulder. Slade regards the man flanking his other side, the three vertical scars on his forehead a curiosity. The turban too. Blüdhaven Police Department isn't known for freedom of speech and especially not freedom of religion.

"I'm able to walk on my own," he says, smiles just a little. They know he could kill at least one of them if he wanted to, and he meets Malloy's gaze. The man is not a bad officer, but he doesn't have the same presence as his companions. By the distance he keeps, he knows that all too well.

Interesting.

"Not that we would ever question your skills, Mr. Wilson," Grayson chimes in, dissolving the tension as if it’s nothing, "But we have had too many unfortunate accidents on those stairs. Bad for the rep, ya know?"

The grin is near impish, apologetic yet genuinely amused.

"You think I would slip on the stairs, Boy?" Slade doesn't know where the hint of genuine amusement in his voice comes from, but it’s not as if he can take it back.

"You are pretty... ancient," Grayson's grin only grows bigger, "For your job description anyway. Might as well give Tiger and me the honor."

The following shrug is boyish. Slade feels like a wolf salivating in front of a raw steak he knows he shouldn't eat.

When they step inside the interrogation room, Tiger chains him to the table. Grayson disappears like a will o' wisp - there in one second, gone in the next. Slade wonders if the officer is already standing behind the one-way mirror, watching like a hawk... No, he doesn't seem the type, is probably just behind the door, would attack him the second he flipped the table and knocked Tiger out.

The handcuffs dig into the flesh of his wrist. It's a common technique to induce discomfort. Slade has had far worse.

Before the silence turns too prominent, Helena steps inside. Grayson follows after her and locks the door. Malloy isn't with them, and Slade watches his reflection in the one-way mirror, deduces where the officer might stand, how to get to him before anyone can stop him.

"We haven't officially arrested you," Bertinelli states, throwing a file in front of him. The chair screeches over the stone floor as she pulls it back to settle down in front of him. Slade discreetly views the contents spilling out of the file. Seeing Blockbuster's name isn't particularly surprising. "We want to hire you."

Slade would laugh if not for the fact that Helena Bertinelli has let huge sums of money disappear during her time in the mob.

"To take out half of Blüdhaven's police force?"

"No, we will deal with that. You only have two hits. Roland Desmond and Dudley Soames."

"And everyone who gets in my way."

Bertinelli grins. "That too."

Slade hums. "How much?"

"$200,000 for Desmond, $100,000 for Soames."

"Add another $100,000 for the casualties."

"That's too much."

Slade tilts his head, lets out a laugh. "I'm not here to bargain with you."

Bertinelli narrows her eyes, red manicured fingernails clacking against the wooden table. 

"Fine," she concedes after a moment, "but. You will stay in contact with Tiger until the contract is fulfilled. Running around in our city will cost you more, Deathstroke."

Slade hums and leans back a bit more to get comfortable before he lets his gaze wander from Bertinelli's narrowed eyes to look at the man in question. Tiger's gaze is steady, arms crossed in front of his chest and feet firmly planted to the ground. A fighter. Maybe even someone who fought in a war, definitely someone who knows the grittiest side of their business. He has placed the wall at his back, not the one-way mirror, his gaze sticks to Slade, but the door is in his periphery and furthest away. Tiger is a man Slade could work with without being forced to, that is if he made a habit of working with anyone.

Grayson, on the other hand, all but longs at the edge between mirror and wall as if he is waiting for an attack, goading it. His position is nearest to the door. He should be looking out for an escape attempt on Slade's part; instead his attention sticks strictly to Bertinelli. Grayson looks displeased.

The clear blue eyes snap to him when his attention is noticed. They thrill into his soul.

"Give me Grayson instead, and we have a deal."

Grayson cocks his head, smiles. It's an act, but the sensuality gets to Slade, makes him crave to rip into the mask Grayson is wearing like a feral dog. Maybe he can rip his clothes off too while he is at it.

"Deal."

Slade grins - not yet knowing how good Grayson is at evading him. Turns out, "stay in contact" means nothing more. Grayson checks up on him per message, tells him what to do. For a day, Slade contemplates stalling, wonders if Grayson might grow impatient enough to confront him in person. Blüdhaven's very own blue and black shadow makes him rethink. Bertinelli is already searching for a way to get rid of him the second his job is finished. He doesn't need the Bats and Birds on his tail as well. 

Nightwing remains an uncomfortable presence following his every step. A fact of importance about the young vigilante keeps evading him. It grates on Slade's nerves because it shouldn't be possible. He has never forgotten anything in the last thirty years, no matter how much he tried.

"You didn't tell me Nightwing would be an issue," Slade lets his distaste be known as he leans against the dirty alley wall and watches Officer Grayson step nearer. The man snorts, impish smile clinging to his face.

"You didn't tell us one bird's enough to put you in a frenzy," Grayson says, fingers hooking into his handcuffs and twirling them in the air, "Hel said you want more compensation for that inconvenience. Who would have thought that Deathstroke the Terminator is scared of a street-level--"

Slade doesn't like when things don't go as planned and street-level barely describes the bats and birds nesting in Gotham. It barely seems to describe the man in front of him.

His sword glimmers in the moonlight, the handcuffs too. One of them is dangling from the sword, the other securely in Grayson's grip while the chain is tightly locked around the metal, stopping the blade from taking Grayson's head off.

"I like to know who I'm working with, Grayson." 

The blue eyes flicker over his face, eyebrows curled and teeth showing for a split second.

"Then you should have asked before taking the contract."

Slade watches. Every muscle remains tense, his teeth bite into his lip, and his eyes burn with an intensity Slade has been craving to see. Satisfied, Slade slices the sword back in an arc, pulling the handcuffs out of the balled hand. They clatter to the ground meters from them. Grayson doesn't turn his gaze away for even a moment, and Slade returns his sword to its sheath.

Blood drips from the still half-closed hand.

"Fair enough."

For a second, Grayson says nothing, just stands at his spot tense as can be.

"Well, how much do you want?" is finally the question that passes his lips. A sudden smile fights against his stoic expression, sharp and gnarled. "50 cents?"

A memory rattles in his mind, frustratingly hazy, but it's important, and he holds out his hand before he knows it. The bloodied hand twitches upward too, and the wide blue eyes staring at him are a sight to behold. It is, maybe, the first time Grayson has truly lost his composure.


End file.
